RIP
by Chiiyo86
Summary: In a cemetery somewhere in Minnesota, the clock is ticking for Sam and Dean Winchester. Not a deathfic.


A/N:_ I wrote this story about a year ago in French, and have now translated it in English. The beta work was done by wave obscura, who was adorable and very helpful. Thank you, hon!_

Disclaimer: _I don't own anything Supernatural related._

**_--__ Rest In Peace --_**

When Dean wakes up and violently hits his head on a surface above him, he understands immediately that something is very wrong.

Everything is dark.

Not just as if it were night; the darkness is as black and thick as ink. He's lying on his back, and he can barely move his arms before bumping against something, to his left and to his right. He blindly raises his hand above his head, hits something and – same thing.

He's prisoner in some kind of box. A coffin? A makeshift coffin, then, because the wood under his fingers is rough, but it's not like it makes a lot of difference. His heart begins to beat faster, his breathing speeds up.

_Oh, please, let it be a dream, this kind of thing never really happens, does it ?Ohfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckingfuck._

He thinks about Uma Thurman, who was buried alive in _Kill Bill 2_, and though thinking about Uma is generally a positive thing – mmh, Uma, so sexy with a katana – in this case, it only intensifies his panic, and he has to hold his breath so he won't scream.

He feels again the wood over his head, then closes his fist and starts to punch.

Once, twice. _Boom, boom_. The noise is dull, which means there's a solid mass above him.

He closes his eyes – even if it doesn't change a lot in terms of darkness – and wills himself to resist the temptation to hammer the surface with his fists until they bleed. It wouldn't do any good, he knows he could never break the plank of wood, having never undergone intensive training from an old Chinese guy with a white goatee beard.

But what happened, exactly? How do you find yourself buried alive when the moment before you were... Where was he, anyway? He tries to focus. He was ... in a cemetery – very original, given his line of work – and Sam and he were looking for... Sam.

_Sam! _

Everything comes back to him in a rush of images, but the sequence of events doesn't really matter, because he was with Sam when it happened, and now he has no idea of where his brother could be.

Pain in his left arm catches his attention, and he feels the limb until he finds something under his fingers. It's a kind of dart; he takes it from his arm and brings it to his nose so he can smell it. A tranquilizer dart – a new piece of the puzzle has found its place, but it still doesn't tell him where Sam is. He feels once again the irrepressible desire to punch, punch again and again until the lid of the box he's locked in yields, or until exhaustion forces Dean to give up.

He bites his lip until he tastes the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, consumed by his helplessness, his inability to do anything to save himself, or save Sam. It's too dark, he can't move, and he keeps thinking about how much oxygen remains in the confined space, about how it's running out, like grains of sand in an hourglass, slowly but surely, until he's dead.

It's fortunately at this very moment, when he's trying to decide whether the situation is desperate enough to lose his mind, that his phone rings.

He starts, and bumps his head again, then begins to search frantically through his pockets. He almost forgot the existence of the thing, but now it's like a life preserver thrown to a man overboard – the hope, maybe, to survive.

He looks at the screen to check who calls, not that it really matters – anyone would be welcome in his situation – but as it turns out, it _does_ matter, because the glowing name is "Sam". The wave of unadulterated joy that overwhelms him is almost more than he can bear.

"Sam? Sam, I ... I'm in deep shit, I ..."

He stops talking because he doesn't hear his brother's voice, which is rather bad sign, since usually Sam never shuts up. He holds his breath and strains to listen, until he perceives the sound of hurried, panicky breathing. It's Sam, he knows it the way one knows instinctively which part of their body is in pain.

"Sam? Sam! It's me, it's Dean!"

The sound of breathing is distant, not the way it would be if Sam was holding the phone near his face. The phone must have dialed on accident, then, but Dean doesn't dwell on the strangeness of this well-timed technical fault, because Sam is panicking – he's probably locked up like Dean, who has forgotten his own panic to focus on his brother's.

"Sam! SAM!"

There're some muffled noises, then Sam's voice – sounding sweeter than honey to Dean's ears.

" Dean? Dean, it's you?"

"Yes, it's me, Sammy, it's okay, I'm ..."

He almost says 'I'm here', but swallows the words back, because he's not here, strictly speaking.

"Where are you?" he asks instead.

"... I'm trapped in some kind of box. Dean, I think, I think I'm buried alive."

"Yeah ... me too. Me too, I think."

It's hard to remain casual when saying this, but Dean has practice. All his life, he has ignored his fear and anguish to ease Sam's. Of course, it's been a long time since he could persuade Sam that everything was fine when it obviously wasn't, but he likes to think that his younger brother has kept some of the childish hero worship that made him blindly trust his brother to fix the most desperate situations.

"I think there was someone in the cemetery with us. He shot us with tranquilizer darts. I had one in my arm."

"Ah, I have one planted in my thigh. So this guy knocks us out, and then what? He buries us alive? What are we dealing with, some kind of serial killer?"

Sam's voice takes this pensive tone that means he's considering a case, waiting for Dean to bounce back on his words. It's reassuring, because it means he's regaining control, and Dean has to admit, he's grown used to having Sam as a partner and is relieved he no longer has to comfort a terrified little brother.

"I have no idea and I don't give a fuck. We have to get out of here, and quick."

"But how? I don't know about you, but I don't see myself breaking the lid with my fists like Uma Thurman."

Dean indulges himself with a smile before he answers. They haven't seen the movie together, Sam probably went with a friend, or with Jess, but Dean is strangely comforted by the idea that during their years apart, and Sam and him went to see the same movie, and that they think about it at the same time. This is the reassuring continuity of a childhood of shared references.

"No, of course. We need someone ... I know! I'm gonna call Bobby! He's a couple hours from here, he should arrive in time ..."

Finishing this sentence is useless, so he doesn't. He doesn't know how long they have before the lack of oxygen kills them – he doesn't even know how long before they loose consciousness – but they can hold on for two hours, right?

"Good idea," Sam says, "call him."

"Okay, don't hang up. I'll be quick, I'll be right on the other line."

"Don't worry about me. Go ahead, I'm waiting."

Dean finds the double call function fucking useful right now, because he can't bear the idea of cutting this tie between him and Sam. Bobby answers at the third ring, which is unusual for him, but Dean welcomes the voice of his old friend as he would welcome the Savior.

"Bobby! Bobby, we're in serious trouble, man, we need your help."

"For a change. So, what is it this time?"

"We're buried alive."

Few things can shake the old hunter, but Dean's statement is greeted by shocked silence.

"Both of you?"

"Yeah, but not together. I have Sam on the phone, but we're not in the same, uh ... box."

"Right. Well, tell me what happened."

If Dean had not already been aware of how serious the situation is, he would be now, hearing the slight tremor in his friend's voice. When Bobby starts to panic, it means that shit has truly hit the fan.

"We were on a missing person case, in Minnesota," he begins as calmly as he can manage. "It started about ten years ago. The disappearances were far apart enough that no one noticed anything wrong, but there were too many to be just the usual run away kids and husbands abandoning their wives."

He interrupts himself so he can catch his breath. Is he imagining it, or is it really getting more difficult to breathe?

"Dean?"

"I'm here. Well, a few weeks ago, a young woman went missing. Three days later, an old lady went to pay her respects on the grave of her late husband, and she complained that the dirt had been moved. They dug to see if something had been buried there, or if the body had been disturbed, and that's when they found her."

"The girl in question?" Bobby guesses.

"Yeah. In a pine box. The poor girl suffocated. Her knuckles were bruised, her fingernails torn. Awful business."

"Well, shit."

And really, there's nothing more relevant to say. Dean goes on, however, with a feeling of urgency that rushes the words from his mouth:

"It didn't seem particularly supernatural, but we were in the area, we had nothing else to do, and it was weird enough to be our kind of things. It was worth a look."

He sounds like he's justifying himself – and he is. It was his idea to investigate; he was bored to death, and would have given anything for a hunt and some action. And now, he is actually going to die. _Don't think like that. Bobby will find something; he always does, doesn't he?_

"Nobody made the connection between the buried girl and the other disappearances, except us. We decided to pay a visit to the cemetery where the girl had been found. Then, nothing. Until I wake up in this box."

"And the last thing you remember is being in this cemetery with Sam?"

Dean suddenly realizes that of everything he has just told Bobby, while his breathing is growing increasingly short, only that last piece of information matters.

"Yes," he breathes, and he gives Bobby the address of said cemetery.

"Okay, I'm on my way. Hold on, boys."

Bobby, not a man of many words, hangs up without further delay, and Dean is once again alone in the dark. Well, not exactly alone, he remembers.

"Sammy?"

"Dean?"

Sam's voice is hesitant and fragile, and Dean feels a lump forming in his throat. But the only thing he can do right now is maintain contact, so he says:

"So I called Bobby. He's coming."

"He's coming? Coming where?"

"To the cemetery. It's probably where we're buried. Just like Tina Robinson. Just like the others, I think."

He says that with more confidence than he really feels, however the hope is real. Hope makes him feel dizzy and makes his heart beat faster, but he clings to what remains of his calm.

"Dean, we should stop talking," Sam says. "To save oxygen."

As often, Sam is the voice of reason; Dean believes he can feel how much of his oxygen supply was used up during his conversation with Bobby. But just thinking about breaking this tenuous link between him and Sam, and he cannot breathe at all… He imagines being alone in the dark – _Sam _ being alone in the dark – and this one thought ... He's faced many things in his life, things that would be too much for most people, but that he can't, he knows he can't.

"Okay. Okay, but ... don't hang up. Put the phone on speaker, and leave it next to you. Don't hang up."

"Okay."

Dean can hear the relief in his little brother's voice.

He does the same, puts the phone on speaker and lays it near his head. Once he's done that, there's nothing else to do but wait, and listen to his deafening heartbeats filling the space, and pray that the batteries of his phone and Sam's phone won't fail them.

He tries to focus on the sound of Sam's breathing, resists the urge to talk to him to make sure he's still there, alive in his own prison. He has to hear Sam, it's vital, his brother is his shield against death and madness – as always.

That's when he hears it, this faint noise coming from the phone, at regular time. _Poc. Poc_.

It's Sam, of course, Dean doesn't need to talk to him to confirm. In the silence between two of Sam's knocks, he does it too, knocks with his finger on the wood over the phone.

_Poc_. Sam. _Poc._ Dean. _Poc._ Sam. _Poc._ Dean. _Poc._

It's like their two heartbeats echoing each other, like the story of their lives, simply.

_Poc._

--

It's only when he hears Sam's panicked voice calling him, that Dean realizes he has zoned out.

"Dean! Dean, answer me!"

"Sam," he croaks.

"You okay?"

Sam's voice is weak, and he sounds out of breath. Dean himself feels that every breath is painful, as if he had a weight sitting on his chest.

"Yes," he says to the phone. "I'm good. You?"

"Same here."

They're both lying, of course. Dean knows the end is coming close. He'll soon lose consciousness, weakened by the lack of oxygen, and will die.

He has been at peace with the prospect of his own death for many years. Given his line of work, he has to. Of course, if he had any choice, he would have preferred a slightly different death, a death in a blaze of glory, and not to be lying in the dark, waiting for the end.

The idea that Sam is also dying is more difficult to accept. The only acceptable death for Sam in Dean's opinion, would be at eighty years old, surrounded by his grandchildren – but it's less and less likely to happen. Yet some part of him, one that he doesn't like to look at too closely, finds some comfort in the fact they're dying together. As if there was something right about this. But he quickly buries the feeling deeply, where he locks up all his unwanted thoughts.

Dean thinks he should make a final statement, some famous last words, even if nobody will be alive to remember them. But the question is, of course, what can he say to Sam?

Not that he loves him, because it seems obvious to him. To say it out loud would be redundant, and far too awkward. The problem is that words aren't really Dean's thing, but are more Sam's – forever a gap between the two brothers. He thinks about it for some long minutes – precious minutes for Dean and Sam – and eventually, he declares solemnly:

"Sam, next time I want to investigate a case where people are buried alive, you hit me, okay?"

Sam's breathless laughter is barely audible, but still _there, _no less comforting.

"Yeah, no problem."

--

The next thing Dean is aware isn't of angels singing, or some similar kind of bullshit, but of darkness being torn apart, giving way to light and fresh air.

He blinks. Disembodied arms grip him tight and raise him from the dark, and next thing he knows, he's lying on wet grass, and the sky is pale with the light of dawn.

The oxygen in his lungs feels like a swig of whiskey on an empty stomach – it burns all the way down, and makes him dizzy. He draws long painful breaths, coughs, protects himself from light with his trembling right hand.

"Damn it, Dean. Breathe, boy."

It sounds like Bobby's voice, and it feels like Bobby's hand on his shoulder. Dean raises his head, and well, this is Bobby, with his eternal cap, his beard, and the gruff but worried look on his face.

And then there's some other guy that Dean doesn't recognize, who has wide shoulders and curly black hair, and is standing in a hole, a shovel in his hands, looking at Dean as if he was seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger in pink tutu.

"You,' Bobby growls, "keep digging, for fuck's sake."

That's when Dean realizes that Bobby is holding a shotgun and is waving it threateningly in the man's direction. The man who is standing in a hole – no, a half-dug grave.

"Sam," he whispers – he's surprised by how weak his voice sounds. "Sammy, God, Sammy."

"Dean, calm down," Bobby says. "He's digging, he's gonna get your brother out of here in no time."

Bobby leaves Dean to join the guy, who is now digging with the energy of a possessed man, and he thrusts his own shovel into the loose soil. Indeed, they quickly hit wood. Bobby takes a crowbar and begins to frantically pull the planks.

Soon, he and the man whose name remains unknown are getting Sam out of his prison, hoisting his huge body like a sack of potatoes, and then Sammy is face down in the grass, doing his best imitation of a fish out of water.

"D-Dean," he stammers when he stops choking on the excess of air. "Oh, Dean, Dean."

Dean begins to crawl towards his brother, on his knees and elbows – he's not sure if his legs are strong enough to support his weight – and he reaches out to Sam, who is blinking owlishly, dazzled by the daylight. He intends to comfort his little brother, but they end up clinging to one another instead, as if they had not seen each other for ten years, and had spent the whole time crawling, searching blindly for each other.

"I'll be damned," someone whispers.

Dean separates himself from Sam, raises his head, and sees that the stranger is the one who just spoke.

"Who the hell are you?" he rasps.

He knows he should be nicer to the man – he saved Sam, after all – but he's really too exhausted, feels worn like some ratty old jeans.

"My name is Max, Max Wilder. I, uh, I'm a nurse, and I was going back home after a night shift, when, uh, this gentleman," the man nods in Bobby's direction, "... stopped me with his rifle. He brought me here, gave me a shovel." He pauses. "I thought for sure that you were crazy," he says thoughtfully to Bobby, "but there actually _were _people buried here."

Bobby lowers his shotgun, and has the good taste to look embarrassed. He removes his cap to scratch the top of his head.

"Had I been alone," he says, "I probably wouldn't have been able to save one of the boys. And the other never would have forgiven me."

Dean looks at Sam, who is still gripping Dean's left sleeve with his closed fist. This is one of those moments when they know without saying it that they're thinking the same thing. Dean is nauseous when he thinks about how he could have survived while Sam remained to die in his grave. He feels sudden and overflowing gratitude toward Max Wilder, the male nurse.

"Well, thank you," he mumbles, embarrassed by feelings so overwhelming he's afraid he might burst into tears. "Thank you for, uh, digging my brother up."

Max's hand is going through his hair, and the man still looks bewildered.

"Wow, that's certainly the first time someone has said _that _to me. Uh, you're welcome."

They watch each other in silence for a moment.

Then everything suddenly unfreezes and starts moving again, too fast for Dean, who kind of loses his grip on what happens. At one point Max Wilder is no longer with them, so he must be have returned home, and no doubt he won't ever see things the same way after he helped digging graves at dawn in order to free two guys buried alive in a cemetery.

They land at Bobby's, and Dean doesn't even know if the graves were refilled. He doesn't know what time it is, or which day, but he knows Sam is with him, and that's all that matters.

From this experience, unusual to say the least, he has learned one thing.

Uma Thurman is really amazing.


End file.
